


A Minor Difference

by FlitShadowflame



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Mentions of miscarriage, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9495953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlitShadowflame/pseuds/FlitShadowflame
Summary: Fill for the followingkink meme prompt:Part of the reason why Balin isn't very supportive of the quest is because Thorin is finally pregnant with his and Dwalin's child. The Carrock scene plays out differently and becomes a frantic attempt to save both Thorin's and the baby's lives after Thorin is mauled by the White Warg.No preference whether it's mpreg or preg with fem!Thorin, just that Dwalin is the father, please. Everything else up to Author!





	

Thorin forgot, in his blind rage at Azog, about all the reasons he had not to risk his life and health.

To be fair, there were only really two reasons, one of them very new to him still.

Dwalin - reason number one - was less than impressed, but too worried to scold as Oin looked over Thorin’s injuries.  Thorin drifted in and out of consciousness and was unlikely to remember a reprimand anyway, so why bother?  He could scold to his heart’s content when Thorin was well again.

It went without saying that Thorin would recover.  Dwalin couldn’t bear to imagine a future without his One.

“I don’t suppose you know any healing spells, Master Gandalf,” Balin asked.

“A few.  Remedies, more than spells.”

“Are ye waiting for some manner of invitation?” Dwalin growled.

“I can offer no better care than Master Oin,” Gandalf protested.  “Thorin is in excellent hands.”

“But what about the _babe_?” Dwalin demanded, an edge of desperation to his voice.

Gandalf raised both bushy eyebrows.  “Thorin is with child?” he asked mildly.

Dwalin swallowed.  “Aye.”

“What?” Bilbo asked.  “How can - ”

“Uncle is pregnant?” Fíli and Kíli chorused.

“The child is another matter,” Oín said gravely.  “Thorin lost a great deal of blood, and none of us has eaten in over a day.  We need shelter, and food.  Else I fear the babe may not survive.”

The Company fell into such an uproar that Thorin was roused.

“Silence!” Dwalin barked.  “Thorin, the babe is in danger.  We need food and shelter.  What would you have us do?”

“Ah, perhaps I can be of some assistance after all,” Gandalf said before Thorin could speak.  “There’s a...man...who lives in the wilderness nearby.  Not overfond of strangers, but he has a generous heart and would not turn away a needy soul, I am sure.  Especially one with child.  Children are as precious to him as they are to elves and dwarves.”

“Elves,” Thorin muttered angrily.  Everyone ignored that.  “We will seek out your wildman.  Pray he is a better host than your Elrond.”

“Will you prove a better guest if he is?” Gandalf asked, a touch snidely.

“Thorin will need meat,” Oín said.  “To restore the blood.”

Gandalf pretended not to hear.  “Will we be carrying the patient, or can he walk?” he asked instead.

Oín gnashed his teeth.  “His legs are fine.  It’s his ribs that worry me.  Let him walk unless he tires.”  He rounded on Thorin.  “And none of your usual antics.  Your health is no longer solely your own concern.”

Dwalin ended up supporting Thorin as they followed Gandalf to a massive log cabin several miles from the Carrock.

Beorn was the man’s name, if indeed he could be called merely a man.  He stood nearly as tall as a dwarf would - were he standing on another dwarf’s shoulders.  Thorin resented him immediately, but grudgingly conceded that Gandalf was right about one thing - they were not turned away.

“The little one struggles,” Beorn said to Thorin, presumably meaning the child.  “Come.  Milk and vegetables will help.”

Thorin grunted.  Gandalf had mentioned that Beorn ate no meat, hunted no game, but Thorin hadn’t really believed him.

The food was plentiful, at least, if not precisely to the dwarves’ tastes.  The bread and honey were popular, as was the mead, which Thorin was forbidden to drink, much to his displeasure.

“Liquor makes babes angry and stupid,” Beorn said.  “Don’t you know that?”

“With Uncle Thorin and Mister Dwalin for fathers, the babe will be angry regardless,” Kíli shrugged.

 “If your efforts at scholarship are any indication, intellect will not be its strong suit,” Balin commented.  Kíli flushed.

 “Uncle Thorin!” he protested.

 “Why do you think he’ll help you?  He’s had to tutor you, too,” Balin pointed out.

 “Kíli is young yet.  He will learn from his mistakes, if he is too hardheaded to learn from his elders,” Thorin said dismissively.

 Kíli pouted, and Fíli laughed.

 “You weren’t so much better for Kili to deserve your laughter, laddie,” Balin said primly.

 “Was Uncle a good student, Mister Balin?” Fíli asked rather than acknowledge that.

 “My mother often sang his praises.  Unlike some princelings we know, Thorin _liked_ to read,” Balin sniffed.

 “I had more leisure time available for it to appeal to me,” Thorin said with a shrug and a wince as his stitches pulled.  “Fíli and Kíli have worked very hard their whole lives.  I could not be prouder of them.”

 His nephews clung to him and kissed his cheeks for the compliment, which only made Thorin blush.

 Balin sniffed again, still too angry at Dwalin and Thorin for endangering his own nephew (or niece) to be mollified.

 Dwalin slept with his arms around Thorin that night, seeing no point in the discretion Thorin had favored when the others were unaware of their closeness.  He needed the reassuring weight of Thorin’s body curled into him before he could even imagine falling asleep.

 Balin was unable to find his rest so easily, perhaps because he had no One to console him.  He stood watch over Thorin instead.

 Thorin, who was in too much pain to rest, eyed Balin warily.  “Not another lecture, I hope,” he murmured, quiet enough not to wake his sleeping partner.  Balin smoked his pipe for a long moment before answering.

 “Is there any point to it, now?  You have proven just as reckless as ever, despite your promise to take better care of yourself.”

 “I cannot lead from behind like some elf-lord,” Thorin scowled.

 “Perhaps we should have put the journey off for another year.  Left the babe with Dís, or Gloín’s wife, maybe.”

 Thorin’s shoulders sank. “I would not be parted so soon from my only child.  I know it must be now.  The babe was a sign.  For years Dwalin and I tried with no success, to come closest when Father led the trip to Erebor last - when I felt the little one stop stirring I knew they - you, and Father, and Dwalin and the rest - had failed.  When I became pregnant again as we planned this journey, I _knew_ it for a sign.  Do you understand now?  My child will be born in Erebor or not at all.  It was meant to be this way.”

 Balin stilled.  “You never mentioned you’d been pregnant before.”

 “It was early still, when you and Dwalin left.  When you returned - I couldn’t say _then_.  Not with all we had lost.”

 “He doesn’t know either?”

 “I’m not sure.  He was always better at hiding his feelings than I was.  Dis may have told him, to explain why my mourning lasted so long.”  He had never quite mourned Thrain, as Thorin had known his father was not dead.  But he had been sorrowful and easily irritated for well over five years after the failed expedition to retake Erebor, and every dwarf but Dís had put it down to the loss of Thrain cutting hard and deep.

 It was true, in part: he had rule of their people well before he was ready, and that had not helped his temper.  But it was the lost babe he missed most sorely.

 “A boy or girl?  Were you far enough to tell?” Balin asked gently, drawing Thorin from his dark memories.

 “A boy,” Thorin sighed, pulling Dwalin a little closer.  “He would have been a full century this year.”  A playmate for Fíli and Kíli, who were only a decade or so younger.  How many times had he watched them, growing up, and seeing instead his own child?

 “Aye,” Balin said softly.  “I’m sorry.”

 “I thought I was too old to be with child by now,” Thorin continued.  “But I see now that Mahal has blessed this journey.   We _must_ succeed.  I don’t think I will survive a second failure.”

 Balin didn’t argue.  It did have the look and feel of a sign, to tell the truth.  Thorin was well into his second century, not the oldest dwarf Balin had ever heard of who got pregnant, but not far from it.  Fertility was best between seventy and one hundred fifty, by all accounts.  Past two hundred was almost unheard of, and Thorin was beyond one hundred and ninety.  It was a miracle.  It was a miracle Thorin and the child were still alive, too.

 “We will not fail you, my king,” Balin said, the same promise he had given Thrain.  This time, however, he felt more weight behind it, more rightness.   The Company would reach Erebor.

 What would happen after, well.  That he could not foresee.

 +

 Beorn became more welcoming as he grew more accustomed to his guests, but Thorin tolerated his coddling with ill grace for the week of their stay.

 At least, until Beorn told the tale of his own people.  Then Thorin relaxed his temper a little.  Here was another who had suffered like he and his people had.

 Here was a man who understood loss.

 After that, Thorin spoke more graciously to their host, and even permitted him to touch Thorin’s pregnant belly.

 “The little one kicks,” Beorn said with a smile, removing his hand.  “Honey milk has made them strong.”

 Thorin managed a rare smile for Beorn, at that.  “We appreciate your hospitality,” he said, bowing his head slightly.

 Beorn even seemed a little sorry to see them go - but mayhap it was the ponies he’d miss.  Certainly it was the ponies that the dwarves most missed, when honor compelled them to send the mounts home as they had promised, at the edge of Mirkwood.

 Gandalf was another thing they’d miss in the forest, but it was food above all that they lacked.  Soon enough, they were captured by elves and Thorin scarcely avoided clutching his belly in nerves.

 His words to Thranduil were proud, and likely foolish, he knew that.  He also knew a diet of bread and water would not sustain the fragile life inside him, and with great regret he swallowed his pride to speak to the she-elf guarding them.  He even lowered them to using elvish, what little he remembered of long-ago lessons.

 “Elleth,” he said, because “she-elf” wouldn’t do.  She turned in surprise.  “ _Ecë nin gar-matil_?”

 “You have food,” she replied in the Sindarin tongue, which he barely understood.

 “ _Aes_ , not _mann_ ,” Thorin said, correcting himself as much as her.

 “Meat?  Why should we waste our scant stores on you, prisoner?” she asked.

 “ _Winicë_ ,” Thorin said, cradling his belly.  “The baby is starving.”

 The elleth’s eyes went wide and she breathed, “You are with child?  I thought dwarf-women scarcely traveled.”

 Thorin shook his head, unwilling to clear the age-old misconception about dwarves.  They hid their few women in plain sight simply by dressing them as men, and no one yet had learned enough to tell the difference.  Some of his company were women, but not him.  Bearing men were rarer still than women.

 “I am king.  The rules are different,” he said only.

 “We will have you inspected by one of our own healers.  If what you say is true, then King Thranduil _may_ grant you meat,” the elleth said, recovering from her shock.

 Thorin refused to remove more than his shirt for the healer, and demanded she give valid reason for him to do more.  When she could not, he gave her leave to examine his (only slightly distended) belly.

 “I have never seen a dwarf pregnant before,” the healer began, “and it seems unlikely that I will again, but Thorin Oakenshield does appear to be pregnant.”

 Thranduil raved in private over the ruling, but gave leave for one portion of egg and one portion of meat to go to Thorin every day.  Everyone breathed a little easier after that.

 It didn’t stop the dwarves from escaping, of course.

 They scarcely had time to clean up and rebraid their hair before a new threat - or opportunity? - showed up.

 Bard, of Laketown.

 He took nearly every coin they had before he would agree to smuggle them into town, and it quickly became obvious why.

 He had children, two of them quite young still, who depended on him solely.  The risk he took was great.

 Now that they were within sight of the mountain, a strange light took Thorin’s eyes.  He was not to be dissuaded from reclaiming his homeland, his babe’s birthright.

 Not by any Man, at least.  Maybe his One could have persuaded him, had Dwalin been of a mind to try.  Balin had already done his best long ago and now agreed with Thorin: the time had come to retake Erebor.  The ravens returning to the mountain and the child within Thorin were only two of the signs Oín had read.

 It was difficult, leaving the boys behind.  But in some ways, it was a relief.  If all went ill, Durin’s line would continue in them.  Thorin made himself believe that, even seeing how deathly pale Kíli was.

 He would see them again, he told himself dismissively.  This was far from the end.

 +

 Bard slew the dragon.  Thorin gleaned that much, through the haze of sickness.  Clearer was the moment Dáin arrived, riding a warpig of all things.

 Clearest of all, his water breaking.  The babe was coming, a full month early.  Thorin’s heart was in his throat the whole time, only Oín for company as Dwalin, Fíli, and Kíli were out fighting his battles for him, fighting _Azog_ for him.

 He raged throughout the labor and delivery and very nearly left the childbed to rain arrows on his foes.  As it was, he surfaced, exhausted, only when the battle was done.

 “Thorin!  Where have you been, cousin?  You missed a most glorious battle!” Dáin exulted.

 “I was indisposed, I’m afraid,” Thorin smiled.  “Where is Dwalin?  Where are Fíli and Kíli?”

 “Injured, but recovering in the healers’ tents.  What do you mean, ‘indisposed’?”

 “I will show you,” Thorin said simply, before climbing out of the gates with the babe cradled in one arm.  “Her name is Kalina, and she is more precious to me than any gold or stone.”

 Dáin’s eyes widened.  “You never said you were pregnant, or we would have come faster!  You held out all that time, alone, against Dale and Mirkwood?”

 “I had my Company,” Thorin shrugged.  “The babe changed little.”

 “Kalina,” Dáin breathed.  “Perhaps in time she will be a match for young Thorin II, eh?”

 “She will match with whoever she loves,” Thorin said, smiling.  “Now I really must find Dwalin.  He should hold her.”

 The babe did change things, however.  She changed how Thorin viewed the elves’ grudging care for himself and his men.  She changed how he responded to the homeless Men of the Lake.

 She even changed how he felt about one little hobbit.  Instead of faulting Bilbo for his greed, he forgave him for his efforts to find peace.

 “Warriors are not always the best kings,” he confided in the hobbit.  “Sometimes we are too quick to find offense.  Better to have a few trustworthy diplomats around, to knock some sense into us know and again.”

 Bilbo smiled wetly, and they embraced, mindful of Kalina.

 The little dwarfling ensnared the hearts of all who met her.  She was a lovely babe, with a full head of dark hair and Thorin’s pale blue eyes.  Even Thranduil softened a little at the sight of her.

 “A girl is a blessing from Aulë,” Thranduil said, quoting an old dwarvish proverb.

 Thorin kissed her little hand.  “Yes,” he said.  “She is a gift.”

 Hyperaware of the child as they were, even disagreements did not lead to raised voices.  They came to terms eventually.  The Elvenking would provide safe passage for the Dwarves of Erebor as they returned to resettle the mountain.  In return for better hospitality to his people, Thorin would give Thranduil the white gems once they were located.

 +

 Dwalin rarely let Thorin hold the child for very long, he was so enamored with his daughter. 

“No one will take her from you, _ukrad_.  Now let me hold her,” Thorin said gently.

 “You had her all day,” Dwalin protested.

 “And had scarcely a moment to play,” Thorin frowned.  “At least bring her _closer_.”

 Dwalin obliged, albeit grudgingly.

 “She’s my daughter, too,” Thorin pouted.

 

“Legally, she’s your alone,” Dwalin said grumpily.

 “Is that what’s been bothering you?  You always said you didn’t want to marry.”

 “I don’t want to be queen or king-consort or whatever rubbish.  But I still want to acknowledge my child.”

 “So you’ll marry for her but not for me?” Thorin growled thunderously.  Kalina woke from her nap with a whimper, and he quieted at once.  “Dwalin, you must see how _that_ looks to me.”

 “Aye,” Dwalin winced.  “I still don’t want to be your consort.  But I’ve always wanted to be your husband.  They’re quite different roles, is all.”

 Thorin scowled.  “This could have been solved a hundred years ago if you’d really wanted to.”

 “What do you mean?  How can I marry ye without marrying the King of Erebor?”

 “Instead of establishing co-rule, I marry you as a commoner.  Simpler that way.  Legally, you’d remain Balin’s heir, not mine.”

 “That’s an option?” Dwalin asked, hopeful.

 “Of course.  It’s what Durin the Deathless did.”

 “Not in any official history - ”

 “In the unaltered ones written by his contemporaries.  It’s something of an open secret among royal historians, but it’s not often shared with anyone but the ruling family.  I should’ve told you sooner, but - well, I thought it was _me_  you didn’t want to marry, that you were - ”

 “Never.  My whole life, I’ve wanted you by my side through everything.

 “Then you may have me,” Thorin smiled.  He kissed Kalina’s forehead, then knocked his skull against Dwalin’s.  “For as long as we live.”

 “For this life and the next,” Dwalin corrected.

 Thorin’s smile broadened.  “Yes.”


End file.
